Kal yaad yeh hum taaza rakhenge, is bottal purani me... ...kal hum sunenge shoor apna, apne hi sanaaton me... [tomorrow we shall keeps these memories afresh, inside this old bottle... ...tomorrow we shall listen to our shouts, in our own silence]
It is good to keep the memories fresh, and at times, the good old bottle is not required to bring back those memories.
There are many alternatives...
Then you slowly drift into Rabbi's song with its signature guitar intro, may sound like a static from a radio station long forgotten or a bunch of wannabe rockstars in their late teens...
And then from this static and the efforts of the wannabe stars, a familiar cacophony emerges... metamorphoses itself into a tune... played long back...
The fingers automatically start to play the imaginary guitar...
You drift back into the chair, close the eyes and look up... the cacophony gets louder and louder...
The cacophony now transforms itself into the sound of the bright red cricket ball, seam pronounced... as it leaves your fingers... you can hear it cut through the heavy winter air, hit the pitch... take the edge of the bat and thump into the 'keeper's gloves...
You can't help but smile...
In an instant, you are riding alongside the flowing stream... the sun beating down on you and the wind into your face... you can hear each beat of the 346cc engine... hearts attuned...
...
...
...
You open your eyes, you're wearing a suit... few strands of the hair have turned white...
A wry smile...
Look out the window...
Fingers start to play the imaginary guitar once again, in your mind you're preempting what the batsman would do if you bounced him... he's thinking that... york him... double bluff!!! Riding 120 km/hr banking 60degress in that turn...
Hearts attuned...
Kal yaad yeh hum taaza rakhenge... is botal purani me!!!
It is good to keep the memories fresh, and at times, the good old bottle is not required to bring back those memories.
There are many alternatives...
Then you slowly drift into Rabbi's song with its signature guitar intro, may sound like a static from a radio station long forgotten or a bunch of wannabe rockstars in their late teens...
And then from this static and the efforts of the wannabe stars, a familiar cacophony emerges... metamorphoses itself into a tune... played long back...
The fingers automatically start to play the imaginary guitar...
You drift back into the chair, close the eyes and look up... the cacophony gets louder and louder...
The cacophony now transforms itself into the sound of the bright red cricket ball, seam pronounced... as it leaves your fingers... you can hear it cut through the heavy winter air, hit the pitch... take the edge of the bat and thump into the 'keeper's gloves...
You can't help but smile...
In an instant, you are riding alongside the flowing stream... the sun beating down on you and the wind into your face... you can hear each beat of the 346cc engine... hearts attuned...
...
...
...
You open your eyes, you're wearing a suit... few strands of the hair have turned white...
A wry smile...
Look out the window...
Fingers start to play the imaginary guitar once again, in your mind you're preempting what the batsman would do if you bounced him... he's thinking that... york him... double bluff!!! Riding 120 km/hr banking 60degress in that turn...
Hearts attuned...
Kal yaad yeh hum taaza rakhenge... is botal purani me!!!
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